Getting Out
by ShinkonoKokoro
Summary: Crossover with Benedict Cumberbatch's 'The Last Enemy.' Takes place after Reichenbach as well as the ministers essentially taking over England with the Total Information Awareness system. Sherlock looks like Ezard, therefore will take his place to get out
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: Some background summary on the movie 'The Last Enemy.' Stephen Ezard (Cumberbatch) is a brilliant mathematician just arrived home from China to make his brother's funeral. He comes home to his brother's flat, which he's inherited, and finds a strange sick woman in a bed and then another one who introduces herself as Yasim, Michael's wife. Stephen and Yasim promptly fall into bed with one another, and when he wakes, she's gone. _

_He takes a job working for the ministers who have enacted the T.I.A. system, or Total Information Awareness. It's a system of cameras and tracking technology that essentially monitors where people are all the time. In the name of preventing terrorist attacks and that sort of thing. However, it becomes deeper when Stephen accepts the job to find out where Yasim has gone. This means he gets embroiled in this plot to discover what the government is covering up and why people are getting sick._

_Ending spoilers kind of necessary to the fic: _

_Stephen figures everything out with Yasim, Michael (he wasn't dead it turns out), another rebel-apparent, and a biologist they conscript. It turns out the rebel-apparent was working for the government the whole time, Stephen gets taken back to Michael's/his flat and Yasim and Michael are sent out of the country. Despite Michael knowing that Yasim and Stephen love one another. The rebel-apparent then really kills Michael, leaving Yasim alone. Stephen is on lock-down in his flat. _

* * *

><p>"It's finished. I'm coming home."<p>

"I'm not in London."

"What happened?"

"It's quite embarrassing, really. It's gotten away from me."

"Tell me."

"Come to the cousins'."

"I hate the cousins'."

"Yes, well. They're dying to see you."

"John?"

"Doesn't know. Doing poorly."

"He's better off for it."

"You think so?"

"..."

"Hm. Thought as much."

"I'll be at the cousins' in a few days time."

"I trust you remember the way."

"Of course."

"Excellent. I'll arrange for John to come for a visit."

Sherlock rung off and binned the phone, ducking out of the line and headed to the rental car station instead. Switzerland to outside of Montpellier was driveable. Even if he did hate driving. The rental he left at the border and then made his way carefully and anonymously for the rest.

* * *

><p>He made the trip quickly though and picked the lock to their grandmother's home before Mycroft could open the door. "What happened?" he demanded, dropping his bag next to the stairs.<p>

His brother exited the kitchen, a mug in hand. "A lot has changed in three years, Sherlock."

"Yes, now stop skirting the issue and tell me what's going on." He followed the smell into the kitchen, pulling a piece of steak onto a plate and grabbing himself a fork. "You haven't been wrecking your diet over this, have you?"

"Sherlock..."

"If it's bothering you this much, what happened? You're not..." Sherlock's eyes flew wide. "What _happened_? Why are you not working."

Mycroft sighed and sagged into a chair. "The T.I.A. system. Total Information Awareness. They keep all of your information on a card and you must carry it with you everywhere. You need it for everything. Getting into buildings, paying for groceries. Taxis. Everything. You'd hate it. The government will know where you are at all times. It happened while I was diverting resources to help you fight Moriarty. No, I don't blame you. I wasn't watching my back and one of the ministers snuck in. I found myself booted out and so, not supporting this change, I left. Anthea's out."

"Have you been in contact with anyone else?"

"No."

"Brilliant."

Mycroft allowed himself a snort. "This will not do."

"Of course not. When's John arriving."

"I'm picking him up at the airport tomorrow."

Sherlock nodded and then put his dishes into the sink.

"You're washing those."

"John will do it tomorrow."

"Sherlock..."

"He'll need something familiar to comfort himself, and this will be perfect," he snapped.

"Do you want me to tell him on the way back?"

He stared into the sink.

"I suppose you know best."

Sherlock stood and poured himself a glass of sherry from the fridge.

"That's mine, you know. John's limping again."

"Of course he is..."

"He's working in emergency. Why don't you go get some rest. I'll wake you in the morning."

Sherlock arched a brow at his brother and then stomped up to his old bedroom.

* * *

><p>He paced through the house like a big caged cat, listening for the sound of the car up the drive. This carding problem. It couldn't continue. Obviously. And for Mycroft to be so...<em>out<em> like this, obviously was a problem. Like it or not, Sherlock relied on Mycroft's connections more than once, despite having his own. It was rather nice knowing your brother was capable of 'having your back' so to speak when needed in a pinch. There was obviously more that Mycroft would share with him. If Mycroft didn't like the way the government was headed, there was no way that it would continue.

Why _didn't_ he tell Mycroft to brief John on the way back. That was stupid.

The programme was relatively new then. He had only been gone from London a little over three years, and everything was different. It must have been a planned change. Only happening to coincide with his absence, really relying on Mycroft's distraction. So in a way, it really _was_ his fault, though his brother would only blame himself for not having all fronts properly covered.

He smirked. It probably galled deeply to drive himself around. The expression quickly fell away however, seeing as his brother was looking worse for wear. And that wouldn't do either.

Moving to the door as the car pulled up the drive, he really didn't want to frighten John. Watching from the window, he held off a cringe at John's terrible limp, leaning heavily on a cane. Something else that would have to be fixed. John lugged his duffel from the boot and paused as Mycroft called his name. Catching his eye over John's shoulder, he nodded. Mycroft leaned in, looking off balance without his umbrella, and put a hand on John's shoulder. Which John then predictably threw off as he stumbled back and fell to his arse.

Sherlock scowled, but ran out the door anyway. John John John.

"What the hell do you mean he's not dead!" John demanded, not bothering to move.

Trotting towards them, Sherlock picked up John's cane and tossed it to Mycroft. John's head swivelled round to see, eyes going wide as he paled at the sight of Sherlock.

"They said... You were..."

"It was a ruse, John. I'm sorry."

"You're... You're _sorry_!" He got to his knees, wincing as he put weight on his leg to get to his feet. "Sorry my _arse_! I _mourned _for you! I _buried_ you, you selfish bastard!"

"Was it a nice funeral? You didn't invite Anderson, did you, becau—"

"_Sherlock!_"

He frowned, focusing in on John's wrecked face and quivering arms that looked ready to punch.

"Jesus..." The other wiped a hand down over his face, reaching back for his cane which Mycroft handed him. "I thought you were _dead_. You don't get to turn up and just say 'sorry.' That's not enough."

Scoffing, Sherlock cut his sharp retort as he caught Mycroft's eye. "Let's get you inside," he said gruffly. "There's tea and dishes."

"Oh. Dishes. Wonderful."

"Fine. I'll do them. However, I believe we have other problems to solve. Mycroft."

"Later, Sherlock. Let the poor man get settled."

John snorted. "Settled. There's a good word. I've been trying to do that since I met you blasted Holmes."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Something's rotten in the state of Denmark."

John bent and grabbed his duffel before lurching passed Sherlock towards the house.

"Your room is the green, John," Sherlock shouted over his shoulder, eyes not leaving Mycroft's face. "So we're all worse for wear. This is not good."

"Understatement, brother," Mycroft muttered, closing the boot and locking the car before he too brushed by Sherlock to head indoors. "When you're done thinking, bring yourself inside, won't you. There's dishes to be done."

"Fuck off."

"Yes, wouldn't that be nice," Mycroft said mildly.

* * *

><p>He went back inside when he saw the light flick on in the green room, indicating John's sequestering himself there. He shook his head and headed in to do the dishes.<p>

"John's decided to sleep," Mycroft said from the sofa in the sitting room as Sherlock passed.

"Good. It should do him good."

"Mm. Join me once you've finished the dishes. We need to talk."

Sherlock carried on to the kitchen, filling the sink with water and scrubbing at the plates and silverware until they were clean. What made this a soothing task for some was quite unclear. It was merely repetitive, menial, and dull. And turned his fingers wrinkled. How long does it take for the average person's skin to turn so? Does temperature of the water have an effect on the length of time?

Later.

He dried the dishes and left them on the counter for Mycroft and then fell into the chair across the coffee table from his brother. Steepling his fingers, he drawled, "So."

"There is a man they're keeping a very close watch on. Stephen Ezard."

"The mathematician?"

"The same. You share bees as an interest. Now. I believe he's the one with the information that we might use to blow this situation open. But it means we have to get him out. Which means returning to London. I cannot go."

"I've no card."

"Fakes are easy to acquire, obviously. But you'll travel such that they cannot track you. Use cash."

"Why me?" He dropped his hands and pulled his legs up.

Mycroft quirked a lip and handed over the file he'd been unconsciously worrying. Clearly more concerned than he was letting on.

"Fuck."

"Mm. Everyone has a doppelgänger. Yours is conveniently intelligent as well. As much as I would enjoy watching you play idiot, this will work well for you. There are copious amounts of video footage, what with his supporting the T.I.A. System for one Eleanor Brooke. A minister. You're remarkably similar to this man."

He snorted.

"You shouldn't have any trouble mimicking him. We can get hair dye and cut it, and you'll have to suffer through poor tailoring. He only wears one outfit. He's been working on research, which you shall have to read up on—I know, useless data for your, Sherlock, but if we ever want our London, our _England_ back, then you'll have to do this."

"Espionage. How exciting."

"No need for sarcasm."

"I recognise the necessity. I don't relish in living this man's pathetic life."

"If you were one for sympathy, I would tell you that's why we're getting him out. Also he just lost his brother and lover. But frankly, we need him. He's been implanted with a tracker, so we'll have to have some small surgery—"

"I don't want John in danger."

"Whether or not he chooses to return to London rests solely in his power."

Sherlock nodded once.

"And you'll have to keep it on you at all times."

"Of course."

"The end game is to expose the ministers and bring back the other system. They're convinced this is the way towards safety for the people. It only serves to irritate." Mycroft fluttered a hand to prove his point. "The background information is in the file, however, here is the short version of what happened, since we both know what happens to files that I give you. Ezard had a brother Michael. He started everything. For Stephen anyway. He worked in Afghanistan and was presumed dead; not, of course. He thought something suspicious was going on in a drugs company, the one manufacturing inoculations. Yasim, Michael's widow cum Stephen's lover, was following up. The pair, Michael and Yasim were thought to have escaped from England, but Michael was killed by a professional. Yasim is on the continent somewhere. I have met up with her and gathered all the information needed. Stephen is in love with Yasim. That will help us draw him to us. Though I imagine the idea of freedom will do the trick just as easily."

Sherlock hummed, looking at the picture of Stephen Ezard.

"And he's one of the only people who, with the proper system and information, can break Tag Me, the project the minsters have abandoned. The poor man's been sending out SOS messages in every string of code he can. He's very subtle. Very good."

"Sing his praises a little more, Mycroft."

His brother huffed. "This is important information. You will become him while I will help him acquire the information to transpose into evidence."

"To take down the ministers, yes, yes. When have you planned for this to happen."

"As soon as possible. Whenever you are ready."

Sherlock nodded. "Of course. Two days, I expect. Should be enough." He slid off the chair, taking the papers and Mycroft's laptop with him.

"Good night, Sherlock."

He stepped lightly upstairs, pausing outside of John's room before continuing to his next door. No lights, no movement. John obviously asleep. No matter. They would speak tomorrow. Probably mid-morning after John woke early and went for a walk, showered, had his tea, and ate. Though not necessarily in that order.

He thumbed on the lap top and searched youtube for videos of Stephen Ezard. Queuing up the interview, he worked his way through them all to match the man's mannerisms and dress sense. The latter being quite poor. Research revealed the man to be very intelligent, if considered socially remote. He was not rumoured to have had any friends. Lived in China for four years, yet never bothered to learn the language—a relief, though Sherlock _could_ speak it conversationally if pressed. He scowled, indeed not anticipating the clothing he would wear. Of that, Mycroft had been correct.

Eyes closing eventually, Sherlock woke curled around the computer on top of the duvet. A fleece over his frame and a cup of tea on the bedside table, he smiled. John. The clock told him he'd slept longer than he thought. He stretched out of the bed, padding down the stairs in his rumpled clothes. Mycroft rolled his eyes at him when he entered the kitchen.

"You're ready?"

"Yes."

"But you're not leaving today."

"No."

"Because."

"You know why," Sherlock said mildly around a mouthful of Mycroft's toast.

"You're going to speak with John."

He waved a hand over his shoulder and headed back upstairs.

"I spat on that toast, Sherlock."

"No you didn't," he yelled back at his brother, ducking into the bathroom. Stripping efficiently, he bathed quickly and put on fresh clothes. Mycroft knew exactly what he liked. The slacks were freshly pressed and the muted royal blue button-up was crisp and fine. He smirked at his reflection. Perfect. And, just on cue, the door downstairs opened, admitting one John Watson. And...yes, going for his tea.

Sherlock went downstairs.

"Morning, Sherlock..." John said, slipping back into habit. Then he paused, the cup halfway to his lips and he shook his head in wonderment.

"Morning, John. Your walk was pleasant, I trust?"

"Is that..._small talk_?"

"Hardly. I was wondering if it had been a satisfactory excursion, both in exercise and calming of the mind."

John huffed over the rim of the cup, finally taking the aborted sip. "That was almost a normal question."

"Please, John." He leaned a hip against the counter, folding his arms. "I'm sure Mycroft probably mentioned the assignment, but we're taking back England."

Rolling his eyes, he sank into one of the chairs by the table. "You really haven't changed."  
>"That's what I'm trying to tell you, John." He watched as John's eyes widened slightly. Sherlock smiled. "There. Are we on the same page now?"<p>

"I'm still angry with you for dying on me."

"Yes. Well. It was inevitable, and I don't regret doing it."

John's face darkened. "Sherlock—"

"And you misunderstand."

"Then _please_ explain."

"I don't regret what happened, allowing my supposed death to pass as truth. It needed to be done in order to fully eradicate Moriarty. However, I am regretful of the anguish that it so obviously caused you."

Looking mollified, John dropped his eyes to the toast on the table. "I haven't forgiven you then. Yet."

"I know. However, I am returning to London to solve this problem. I am going to switch places with Stephen Ezard so that we might restore the previous order of things."

"Humans being so against change and all..." John quipped.

"While this is the case in general, I am against this change seeing as it almost eliminates the need for my position."

"An affront to your brilliance; check."

"John. It restricts movement and freedom and generally cuts down on the rights of human beings."

"That's not something I thought I'd hear from you..."

"There are rights that human beings are entitled to. The Americans stand by them very stoutly. As history tells us."

John hummed in response. "Well, I suppose you'll have space for two?"

Sherlock grinned.

* * *

><p>Preparation was easy. John frowned through the mirror at Sherlock cutting his own hair, the dye sitting on the sink. "Cut the back, John."<p>

His frown deepened. "You don't look like you anymore."

"And that bothers you."

John picked up the scissors and tugged at Sherlock's curls, snipping them off and tossing them into the sink with the others. "You look very strange."

"Thank you, John." He arched a brow at him through the mirror.

"Though considerably better than what I imagined you looking like for being dead," John's voice carried more than a little bite, indicating that he had far from forgiven Sherlock.

"Will you help with the hair dye as well, John?"

"One can manage."

"I would appreciate the help." Sherlock caught his eyes in the mirror again and offered a small smile.

John rolled his eyes. "Stop trying to butter me up." He set the scissors down and stepped back. "Ginger, hm...?"

Standing, Sherlock pushed the stool to the side when they'd finished and carded his fingers through his hair. "Thank you, John. Not bad. I don't like it, of course."

"Naturally," John said, folding his arms across his chest. "You remain, as always, ridiculous."

He sniffed. "You merely fail to see the charm of the aesthetics. This hair cut and the clothes I am about to wear are hardly flattering."

"Mm-hmm." John nodded along. "Lose your figure in all those clothes."

Sherlock spun, an entirely affronted expression over-taking his face.

John, however, merely burst out laughing.

So Sherlock smiled. "A joke. Of course. _Thank_ you, John." He swept by him back into the bedroom and then began stripping his clothes off.

"Sherlock?" John followed him, a strange expression on his face.

He didn't bother to dignify that with a response and instead, scowled at the clothes. "They're hideous..."

"I saw the photos."

"You're sure."

"What? Of course I'm sure I saw the photos. What kind of daft question is that?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, stripping off his own pants to trade them for the kind Stephen used.

"Um. Right. Okay then. Nudity not a problem."

Sherlock paused in pulling up the trousers, gaze flicking to John's face. "You're embarrassed. Because I've no clothes on. Because—"

"Sherlock! Mates don't just _strip_ in front of one another. This is... well. Well now I've seen everything."

Narrowing his eyes, Sherlock raised his chin, an odd little grin crossing his lips for a split second. "It's just a body."

John heaved a sigh.

Sherlock buckled the trousers and threaded the belt, buttoning the shirt up slowly. "But there's more."

"Don't analyse it."

"You're flushed."

"_Please_."

"John..." Sherlock said slowly, fingers stilling on the buttons. "Do you.. like what you see?"

John dropped the hand that was over his face, face now flushed fully, eyes wide, as he gaped. "Wha—that's—just... I don't—you're ridiculous!"

"Hm." Then finished his shirt and tucked his arms into the tan jacket that Stephen wore, hunching a bit too become the unassuming mathematician.

John sucked in a breath. "Jesus."

"Hello. I'm Stephen Ezard. And...you are?"

John leaned away from Sherlock's offered hand. "Wow. That's... That's creepily brilliant..."

"As always, John, you know how to turn a compliment."

He dropped his eyes, shifting to lean on the cane differently. "Well."

Sherlock tsked and then was a flurry of movement: tucking the last few items into his travel case, zipping the thing up and planting it next to the door, spinning round the room to gather his mobile charger, and taking one last sweep through the bathroom and the rest of the room before pulling on the semi-clunky sort of shoes that Ezard seemed to prefer wearing before finally tucking his wallet into the inner pocket of the jacket. "We should go, Doctor Watson."

"Don't call me that." He shivered. "It sounds strange. I don't like it."

His eyes widened slightly. "John then?"

"Like always."

"We're friends then."

"Don't push it," John muttered, brushing past him and thunking down the stairs.

"Just on time," Mycroft said, eyes sweeping over them both as they came into the main hall. "Sherlock, you—"

"Everything is packed. You know better than to ask if I'm prepared."

"Of course." Mycroft's lips twitched. Then he turned to John. "Would you prefer to fly back or go with Sherlock? The former is, of course, what is expected from a man who has nothing to hide. The latter will afford the two of you some time to...reconcile."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, knowing the answer John would choose. The man did not, of course, disappoint. "I'll go with Sherlock."

"Excellent. Now, Sherlock. Do not deviate from the plan. There are people in place to aid you. I expect you will know them at once. Regardless, they will help you get Ezard out and on a ferry to the Netherlands and thence on to Norway. Do understand that I'm putting my trust in you to _not deviate_."

"You know very well that I will deviate if the situation requires it. Now. Cards and affects?"

With a resigned sigh from Mycroft, he handed their things over and then everything was hustle and bustle until they were back in England.

* * *

><p>"Go home, John," Sherlock ordered tersely when they stepped onto English soil. "I'll be in contact."<p>

"I'm sorry? I thought I was going with yo—"

"No, John. I need to go in on my own. And I'll need you at Baker Street like nothing is wrong. Act normally."

"But what—"

"No telling Lestrade or even Mrs. Hudson." He paused a second. "I need you to agree with me on this, John. No. Telling anyone. Do you understand?"

John tossed his head, face scrunching into a frown before he pounded his cane into the ground. "_Fine_."

Sherlock gave a quick nod and then, "I'll be in touch. Don't worry. I won't leave you behind again."

John looked at him sharply, just catching the end of Sherlock's intense gaze.

"I promise."

John nodded sharply. "Alright then. Fine. I'll pretend like nothing's happened. But I want you to call me as soon as you need me. You understand? The moment you need me."

"Of course, John," Sherlock said almost gently. "Off you go then. I'll see you soon." He waited, arms crossed, while John slowly padded away. Then stopped.

"Listen, are you _sure_ you can't use the extra help?"

With a smug smile, he caught up to John and brushed by him. "Let's go."

* * *

><p>They made it finally to London, to a small hotel just down the street from Ezard's flat was supposed to be. John checked them in to a room, having the biometrics card, Sherlock providing the cash. John grinned at him after they shut the door to the hotel room and dumped his duffel on the bed. "Fantastic!"<p>

Sherlock hummed and then quickly checked all the corners of their room, drawing the drapes and plugging a loop into the camera in the corner. "How have you lived with all of this nonsense... This is a gross invasion of privacy..."

John laughed. "Says the man who can read everything about everyone from just looking at a person."

"Seriously, how did you live like this?"

John shrugged, face tight as he dropped his eyes and sank onto the edge of the bed. "I just...did. You adjust. If there's..."

Scowling, Sherlock crossed the room to stand in front of him. "You idiot."

"What!"

"You don't have _nothing_ left to live for. Stop seeing yourself as useless. Now you'd best get some rest. Tomorrow the fun starts."

He groaned but flopped back, leaning his cane against the bedside table. "I suppose we're sharing the bed."

"What do you think, John," Sherlock retorted.

"I think you're a selfish bastard and a right prick."

"Fair enough. So are you going to tell me the rest of the plan since I'm no mind-reader."

"Don't be unnecessarily sarcastic, John."

It was John's turn to hum in response and he draped an arm across his closed eyes. "Well?"

"Tomorrow is just recon. You're free to do whatever you want. Once I've found my way in to the building, I'll take you with me, and I'll swap places with Ezard. You'll take him to the arranged meeting with the ferry. Mycroft will contact you and make sure everything goes smoothly."

"No."

"What do you mean, 'no,'" Sherlock said, voice tinged with exasperation.

"I'm not going to leave you behind here."

"I need to get into the system and shut it down, John. Now's not the time to argue."

"Well, can't I get Ezard out and then be...I dunno...a mate. And just stay at your flat?"

"Ezard doesn't have friends."

John sighed. "A cousin then." He could feel Sherlock's glare from the bed. "Fine. A..._colleague_ from work or something—we were mates as children and then I moved away. _Something_."

"We'll see," he mumbled non-committally. "Call for room service."

"Haven't changed at all," John said under his breath, knowing it would be noticed by the consulting detective anyway. He also answered the door when the person knocked, accepting the tray with enough food for two, obviously, thanking her kindly and then shutting the door in her face. He moved over to the small table in the corner and set it down, Sherlock already pacing in a room small enough to be his bedroom.

"Go ahead and eat. I know you're hungry."

"Of course you do." John sat anyway and ignored him while he ate, eyes continually flicking towards the covered window.

In the silence that followed John's shower and Sherlock's picking at what was left of the food, John finally asked.

"Will you tell me what you were doing for the three years I didn't see you? What were you doing?" _That you had to leave me behind_.

Sherlock sighed. "It's a long story, John. I would rather tell it later."

"Why isn't now good enough."

"It's... tedious at best, if you want all the details. I was hunting down the remainder of Moriarty's ring."

"That wasn't so long."

Sherlock snorted.

"Though it doesn't explain why you had to pretend you were _dead_."

"Now we're talking about this?"

John shrugged.

"Leave it, John. I needed... I needed to go on my own."

"Because I would get in the way? Because I would slow you down? Because I wasn't _smart_ enough to keep up?" John snapped, folding his arms over his fresh shirt.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"No, don't put me off. I want to know."

"I didn't want to have to worry about you."

"You've never done in the past."

"John." He watched him open his mouth to retort, but something in his face must have stopped him. "It was never about you not keeping up or any of those other plebeian reasons you listed. It was about me knowing that you were safe in London."

"Oh yes, where one in every fifty people are murdered and one in every twenty five are involved in a motor accident of some sort!"

"You made those statistics up."

"_Sherlock_! It doesn't _matter_! London is no more dangerous than anywhere else!"

Rounding on him finally, "It is if you've got a target on your back!"

John took a step back at his vehemence. "Well...there's...that," he offered quietly, after a moment of silence.

"Yes John. _That_. Now kindly shut up and go to sleep." He ignored the hurt that flared through his flatmates expression and arranged himself into a pair of flannels before sliding between the sheets.

He woke later in the night to John slipping from the bed. "Where are you..."

John turned, startled. "Oh. Sorry, did I wake you?"

"Light sleeper."

"You didn't used to be." The accusation hung in the air.

He affected a shrug, rolling onto his side to curl up. "Things change."

John gave him a searching look and then padded off towards the bathroom. The light flicked on as the door swung shut.

Sherlock buried his head beneath the pillow to block out light and sound. He didn't move when John slid back into the bed, hugging the edge. Hearing John's breath evening out, he finally dropped back into sleep himself.


	2. Chapter 2

In the morning, Sherlock was up early, dressed and eating the breakfast that he'd woken John at seven to call for. John finally roused himself from the bed around ten, shuffling over to sip the cool coffee with a wince and then finish off the room service. "Still not sleeping?"

"John, I never sleep if I can help it." He pulled on his shoes, beneath yet another pair of foreign trousers. "You know that."

"What are you wearing?" John finally asked like he'd just seen him.

"You've seen enough of those wretched police dramas, John, what do you think I'm doing."

"Why do you—what did you do to your hair?"

"Baby powder."

"And you're... I'm sorry. What are you doing?"

"Surveillance."

"Sherlock... I'm really not in the mood for your one-word answers. If you're not going to tell me, then fine. Go on. Have your fun." John turned away from him, brow furrowing as he hunched over his coffee. He didn't move until Sherlock went to the door.

"Jesus!"

He arched an eyebrow at him.

"You look... I find it hard to believe that's you under there, Sherlock."

Catching his reflection in the mirror, Sherlock grinned. "That would, John, be entirely the point," he said in the voice he would use for his disguise, querulous and rough. He grinned more at John's widening eyes. "Of course... You could always come along as my son..."

John stared at him.

"Of course, you'll have to be very careful. And normal. It's likely to be a high-stress situation for you."

"It's not like I haven't seen that before.." John snorted.

"And you'll have to lose the cane." John's eyes finally met his, hard and a little angry.

"Of course. Because it doesn't play into your scenario," John said sharply.

"In part. Also because my own disguise would look better with a cane." He shrugged and leaned into the door. "Your decision?"

John scowled fiercely and then slung the cane at Sherlock. Who caught it easily. John pushed himself to his feet, standing always being the easy part. "You're a bastard, you know that?" Looking a little uncertain, he took a wobbling step and then forced himself to his bag on a chair across the room and pulled on fresh clothes woodenly. Then took the steps to Sherlock slowly and evenly, even if his lips tugged downwards with the effort.

"Brilliant," Sherlock said, hunching suddenly and threading his arm through John's. "Take care of me while we're out, Johnny."

"Don't call me that."

Sherlock grinned and they left the hotel room.

* * *

><p>John managed to keep up all day, holding Sherlock's arm as they plonked around London, pausing to sit on a bench near Ezard's apartment. Sherlock may have looked like he was dozing, but his eyes carefully tracked the cameras and movement in and out of the building, memorising, planning.<p>

"Want some coffee, Dad?" John asked, a smug grin on his lips.

Smiling weakly, Sherlock patted his shoulder. "Yes, Johnny. That would be lovely, son."

John scowled and rose, heading down the street to get the coffee. They sat a while longer before Sherlock got to his feet and lead John around town for the rest of the afternoon.

"Take me home, Johnny," he said finally. "I'm tired."

John ordered food when they got back to the hotel and Sherlock stripped his costume, immediately settling down to scribble across several sheets of paper. He gradually became less and less aware of John as he focused in on the plan for tomorrow.

"Sherlock."

"Sherlock!"

"Sherlock."

"_Sherlock_."

He slapped away the sudden hand on his shoulder and looked up sharply at the warm body next to him. "John."

"_Yes_. I've only been calling your name for the past fifteen minutes." John folded his arms. "It's late. Do you want dinner? I want to go out. I'm tired of sitting in this hotel room with the same four walls, uncommunicative room-mate, and bad telly channels."

"If I go out, I can't go like this," Sherlock sighed, eventually. He stood, spine popping.

"You've been sitting for too long."

"Thank you, Doctor," he said wryly.

"Well, get your face on then."

Sherlock moved around the room, making himself look unlike himself, pausing before turning towards John. "You did well."

"I'm sorry?"

"Without the cane, John. Keep up."

"A compliment? From Sherlock Holmes?" John said, though Sherlock could see his cheeks pinking at the compliment anyway.

He smirked. "You're welcome. After dinner, I will explain the plan to you in full."

John nodded, a tight expression on his face.

Sherlock sighed. "We'll discuss this later this evening."

* * *

><p>They found a small hole-in-the-wall restaurant to satisfy hunger and then returned to the hotel. John sat himself on the bed and folded his hands on his knees. "Alright then. The plan."<p>

Sherlock grinned, paced a few times and then pulled a chair over and spun it to sit backwards, facing John. "Right. Stephen Ezard needs to get out. We're going to go get him. I'm going to go in as the old man. I'm going to mute the cameras and talk to Ezard. Tell him what we're going to do for him. Get him out. Once he agrees, which I'm sure he will, then I will let you in the back way and you will come up and remove the tracer from Ezard's arm. You will leave it with me, and then you will take Ezard and go. I will remain behind, and you'll take Ezard with you to my brother. You will meet him by the Thames where he'll have people waiting with a boat—here, I'll write the address memorise it and then destroy it."

"All very James Bond. I'm not comfortable leaving you behind."

Sherlock sniffed. "James Bond couldn't do subtle if it hit him in the bollocks."

"Sherlock..."

He tossed his head angrily. "John, I need to stay. Surely you understand. Don't be tedious now."

"You'll forgive me me I don't really want to let you out of my sight again so soon," John snapped.

"What have I told you about being sentimental, John?"

"The same that I've told _you_ about feelings."

"This is necessary. I'm staying to debunk their plot, to keep it simple, and make it so we can go back to the London that I want to come home to."

"This is a terrible idea."

Sherlock grinned. "Of course, I will relate the entire thing to my blogger so that he might record my adventures."

John's eyes narrowed and his cheeks pinked. "You're impossible."

"Yes. Well. It's the way things have to be. It would be so much easier if you didn't argue. Now. I will stay behind to figure out where things went wrong. I know enough of Ezard's system and theorem that I figure I can easily do this in the space of a week. Surely a week is little enough time that you can manage without me?"

"I don't see how you can still joke like this, Sherlock. I find it _less_ than funny, and you're just proving that you never cared."

"Again with the caring lark. Enough. I'll contact Mycroft when I'm done and I'll be extracted to France for clean up. I'll be public enemy number one, after all, and I've done enough running over the past three years that I'm bored of it. You're welcome to join me, if you like. Should you get..._bored_."

John flushed harder. "Fine! We'll do this your way. As usual."

Rising off the chair, Sherlock ran his fingers through his shorter hair. "Excellent. I have medical tools for you in my bag. We'll have very little time to get in, get you and Ezard out before they come to check why the cameras and sound aren't working. So you'll need to be quick. You're listening, John?"

"Yes, Sherlock," he huffed, flopping back on the bed and curling away.

"You'll get out and—would you _look_ at me? This is really juvenile." He frowned at John. "What's the matter with you?"

He rolled over for this. "I've told you, Sherlock."

"And I've already apologised. What more do you want?"

"I guess that's the problem if you have to ask."

"I can't very well gather data when you're refusing to give it to me."

"You mean you can't tell just from looking at me?" John bit out. "You must be slipping."

Sherlock snorted. "Further conversation on this topic is useless." Then he marched into the bathroom to shower. When he got back, John was asleep. Standing over him, Sherlock sighed, dragging a hand over his face. He didn't quite mean the things he said, but John clearly wasn't ready to let things be easy the way they were before. He'd moved on as much as he had been able, missing the stimulation of the sort of life they'd briefly lead, but fell into a sort of comfort in the years Sherlock was gone. And now he'd just thrown it out of alignment for John. He was sorry. But it didn't mean he knew what to say. Right now, however, it all had to be set aside and reviewed for later. He pulled the sheets down, carefully pulling them from beneath John before pulling them up over his shoulders. Then retreated to the chair to think until he fell asleep.

* * *

><p>He woke before John, of course, scowling at the ceiling where his head was tilted over the back of the chair, called down for room service, and let the knocking at the door wake him.<p>

"Arse," John muttered, sipping down coffee like it was life.

Sherlock ignored him in favour of pushing a muffin into his mouth.

"What time are we leaving the hotel?"

"He gets back from the gym between 9:30 and 9:40. I'll already be in the apartment by 8:45 to avoid unnecessary suspicion." He walked over and dropped a mobile into John's hand. "It's a burner, therefore untraceable. I'll call when Ezard's ready." Pointing to a small bag on the dresser, "There are your tools. Wait two blocks away. I'll call you; wait two minutes after that and then come to the apartment. Circle around back, and I'll let you in."

John nodded. "Right."

Stretching, he sat himself in front of the mirror, applying the old man get-up that he had worn yesterday. John's eyes were on him, watching from where he was sitting on the chair. Sherlock continued working, counting down until John said something.

"That's fascinating, you know. How you completely become a different person. I don't know..." John broke off, shaking his head.

Sherlock smirked. "You're too easily impressed as usual."

"No need to be a prat about it."

Sherlock snorted. "It's quite easy. Posture plays an incredible roll on who you are. Go stand in front of the full-length mirror. You always stand straight. Less so now that you've been out of the army for a particular length of time, and you've been used to leaning on your cane. Remember your training." He nodded as John's shoulders drew back and spine straightened. "Look at yourself again."

"Hm."

"Now if you think of bad things that have happened to you, let yourself slouch. See. There. You automatically look ten years older."

"Thanks."

"Nonsense. It's merely a matter of perception. Those of greater age tend to be more stooped due to a life of poor posture and the perceived weight. Therefore, as you stoop, you appear older. It's mostly the psychological aspect. Now let your spine hunch over on itself even more and crease your brow. How old do you appear now?"

John made a noise of distaste. "Probably about sixty-five."

Sherlock chuckled. "Surely not that old, John. But yes. You do appear older. For the rest of it," he said, leaning forward towards the mirror, "all I need is some darkening in the natural creases of my face, tense the muscles so any wrinkle lines appear deeper, keep my voice querulous and gravelly, a few age spots, and the powder in the hair to lighten it, and I'm old."

John looked back at him, straightening himself once more. "It's an amazing transformation."

He hummed and stood, examining himself. "A jumper to cover my size, the slouch to make myself seem heavier than I am, and long sleeves to cover my arms which are obviously the skin of a younger man." He threw a look at John. "Why you should forego jumpers, John."

The other man stiffened and glared. "They're comfortable!"

"Yes. Comfortable. Another trait of an old-age mindset. You become stuck in your habits and traditions."

"You look quite creepy when you grin like that, looking like you do."

"Mix things up, John. Though you never have been a creature to venture outside of habit without a little bit of help, have you. Even the army helped enforce habits."

"Stop it."

He moved to grab the jacket with the suede elbow patches and shrugged it on, snagging John's cane as he walked by. The burner mobile fell into his pocket as well as a packet of tissue, a false wallet and card. He slipped some specs on, letting them slide down his nose a bit before hunching by the door. "Don't be too early. Take your time walking there; act like you belong."

"Jesus, you look ridiculous. I don't even recognise you."

"Excellent. Then neither should anyone else," he said, pleased.

"Go on then..." John sighed, shaking his head and returning again to the food cooling on the table."

The door closed behind him and he shuffled down the hall to the lift and stepped out carefully onto the main floor. The walk down to Ezard's flat building was easy to take slow. It was only 8:20. So he meandered and finally paused outside of Ezard's building, looking up at it as if confused. The plain-clothes guard watched him carefully as he took out a piece of paper with the address written before shambling up to the door and swiping himself inside. 8:38. Plenty of time. He shuffled down the halls, knowing cameras tracked every movement. He pretended to stare at the piece of paper, squinting at it and generally making a show. The people on the other end would never know the difference. He was too good for that. He allowed himself a small pleased smile. Then continued up towards Ezard's flat. He knocked on the door to the one next door and was let in by a confused when he asked to use her loo. She smiled at his 'dottiness,' and guided him with a hand on his elbow. He smiled and thanked her, letting his eyes go a little blank and lost.

"You looking for someone?"

"Um... My godson... His name's...Stephen?"

She gave a little laugh. "Oh. He's right next door. I'll take you when you're done."

He smiled at her again, fake and soft, then closing the door in her face. He takes the moment to mentally fly through the plan and reassure himself that everything will go alright. He runs through the details of information that Stephen Ezard would know. Then readjusts the jumper and in a brief moment of insecurity, checks to be sure he has all the things that he needs to pull this off. All strapped to his chest to add to the illusion of weight. He flushes and then smiles at the woman who takes him over to Ezard's door, knocking politely.

"Hm. He must not be in." She gives him an apologetic smile and a little shrug of her shoulders indicating that she feels obligated to invite him back in.

"I'll wait. He said he'd be home today..."

"He's home a lot. Well. Good luck."

He hummed and paced down to the end of the hall, at Ezard's door as he approached, looking tired and worn.

"Stephen!" he said cheerily, putting on a smile and reaching out to grasp his hand. "I'm glad you're home. Bet you forgot your old godfather was coming, hm? Let's go in and have tea? It's getting nippy out."

Ezard blinked at him, stiffening as Sherlock leaned in for a hug.

"Go with it. I'm here to get you out."

Ezard smiled at him and nodded, unlocking his door. He immediately set around to make tea, the path of his gaze telling Sherlock where the cameras were.

So he shuffled circuitously to place his machines that would mute the sound. As soon as he pressed the button, he ceased the small talk and sat on the sofa across from Ezard. "We're getting you out. Don't worry. I just muted the microphones. They can't hear us. I'm going to replace you and my friend John is going to remove the tracker from your arm. There are those of us that do not like this England, and we need to get you out because you know all the secrets. Where is your information gathered and what password have you locked it behind? I don't want to waste the time trying to crack it."

Ezard stared.

"Look _normal_."

He blinked and then offered a tentative smile. "I'm sorry. I have no idea what's going on."

"Just tell me the information." He whipped out his mobile and sent John the text. "Don't move, I'm recording to look this while we swap places."

"Do I _know_ you? Who do you work for?"

"You don't need to know my name. I just need you to outline the details of what you've been working on for the past month. That's the only information that I don't have. And I assume you've been keeping all the details of the T.I.A. System somewhere."

"I..." He frowned. "I have. Yes. But how can I trust you."

"I'm getting you _out_. You'll be able to rejoin Yasim."

The man's eyes went wide, hope blooming making him seem somehow more alive. "Oh," he breathed.

"Yes. I thought that might get your attention. I work for a..." he felt his face twist in distaste. "I work for a man who represented how the government _used_ to be. Before all of this T.I.A. nonsense."

"Oh."

Sherlock waited a moment until he waved a hand. "Information. Write it down for me."

"Can I...move?"

"Not yet. Password?"

"For my computer, Sayimlove29. For my files at the office, it's Zard1984."

Sherlock nodded, reclining to give them another minute or so to loop. "Excellent. And I assume you've a flash drive encrypted with all of your evidence?"

"Yes. It's taped beneath the sink."

"At least you're not stupid."

"I beg your pardon?"

Sherlock smiled and clicked the button in his pocket. "There. You may get up. John will get here momentarily." He began stripping off the jumper and shirt, pulling his tools off of his stomach.

"What the—"

"Come sit in front of me. You'll have to leave looking like me."

A man used to obeying people ordering him about, Stephen scooted forwards, starting at the single knock on the door before it opened and John slipped inside.

"I assume it was fine for me to—"

"Yes, come on, John. There's topical numbing agent in your bag. Let's get on with this."

John nodded and came over, inspecting Ezard's arms before it was determined it was his left. He pulled the tool out of the small bag and set about preparing his skin while Sherlock dragged his chin upwards.

"Watch me." He ignored the other man's wince of pain as John made the first cut, hands admirably steady, Sherlock making up the man's face the same way he'd done his own. They really did look a lot alike. The thought almost made him smile. He finished quickly and then disappeared into the bathroom to wipe his own face clean and rinse the powder from his hair. When he returned, John was stitching closed Ezard's arm. They both looked up at him, Ezard gasping loudly while John blinked and then looked back to his business. The tracer sat in a saucer on the table in front of him. "That's it?" He scowled at the little thing and then slipped it in his pocket. "Very well then."

"Jesus... You look... You look just _like _me," Ezard breathed, leaning away from him.

Sherlock smiled. "That would, of course, be the point. Now up you go. We need to move quickly lest the powers that snitch become aware of our deception. John, have you anything left that needs doing?"

"No. No, I think I'm done."

"Excellent. Ezard? Leave everything here. You'll be able to have at it later, once all of this tiresome business is finished."

"I..." He looked around and shrugged tiredly. "Very well. Have you contacted Yasim?"

"No. My brother will be able to help you find her," Sherlock said. "Now. Get out. John, take him out the way you came in. Ezard, hunch your shoulders and walk like I did. You are an old man. Walk like one. Understood. Follow John's lead."

Stephen nodded and preceded John out with a sort of dazed expression on his face.

"Sherlock—"

"Yes John. I know. Take care of him. See you soon." He gave him a brief wild smile and then John was gone.

Sherlock immediately settled himself down at Ezard's desk and opened his computer, logging in. He flicked off the computer loop, flicking through the hard drive when he was logged in. The information was much as he guessed it. He spent the rest of the day slogging through all of the other information he found on Ezard's computer and amongst the papers that he had organised on his desk and tables.

It took him a few days to get up to date with all of the information that he needed, secretly accessing the thumb drive and sending Mycroft the encrypted information. He ghosted around Ezard's work place, playing the part of a man with nothing left to live for rather perfectly. His own encounters with Moriarty and the stilted quality of his interactions with John had served well in acquiring that manner. The blonde woman kept looking at him with a complicated moue of regret, pity, and righteousness, making him scowl when she wasn't looking. Ezard had no friends, so there were no small-talk games to play which gave him no small pleasure. He'd hidden all of his belongings in one of the vents of Ezard's flat, taking out the burner mobile under the cover of darkness only to send John a quick text to ease his nerves. Sherlock owed him that much. After all of this nonsense that had come between the ease of their...friendship.

The computer pinged as an email came in on the independent client he'd installed that the T.I.A. couldn't track.

Mycroft.

He fired off an instinctive reply before actually looking at the message and sending a measured estimate of the length of time he would need to continue to need to stay in Ezard's home. He frowned at a knock at the door. He quickly cleared the browser history and shut down the email client and put up other work. The irritating blonde woman was at the door.

"Stephen."

He frowned and then stepped back. "Come in."

She smiled like it was her right to enter. "How are you doing."

He didn't answer, but shut the door and folded his arms across his chest.

"You seem...different. Is everything alright?"

"I don't see why you insist on asking me questions you know the answers to. How's Yasim? Do you have the answer to that question?"

"She's...safe."

He snorted, tossing his head. "The best you can do."

"Oh come _on_, Stephen. You're not going anywhere. And we don't care because she can't do anything."

"No longer a threat."

"Calm down. Aren't you going to offer me tea?"

"No."

She sighed. "You're only going to make things worse for yourself."

He shook his head. She needed to go. This was pointless. Gloating. She was miserable in her position and didn't know whether or not she had chosen the right thing. "Go away, Eleanor. I'm tired. I don't want to do this right now."

She tilted her head at him. "You've gotten so thin, Stephen. You really should take better care of yourself."

"As if you care!"

A wounded look. "We _were_ friends once."

"My mistake," he hissed.

Her eyes widened. "I see. Well. I suppose I had better see myself out then. Be prepared to not need what is on the other side of the bridges you burn."

"Goodbye, Eleanor," he said, injecting weariness and pain into his voice.

She gave a curt nod and then swept back out of the flat.

Scowling, Sherlock got back down to business, sending off more information about the deception of the magistrates to him. The evidence was plenty, but he wanted to nail every single damn one of them.

* * *

><p>The coup d'etat came swiftly after everything has been assembled and Mycroft had the information. Sherlock took great pleasure in the way the suits swept through the building and dragged every last person involved out, screaming if they have to, watching. He grinned at Eleanor, though he knew he should be keeping his head down. It didn't matter that Ezard will get all of the credit for being brilliant. Sherlock didn't mind at all because these people who dared interfere with the way of things were being brought to justice, and he would get to go home to John. Perhaps the last was too sobering. He had agreed to talk, telling John everything.<p>

He suddenly found himself being swept away by a suited official and secreted out the back. Mycroft's doing. Nothing for it but to settle in for the trip back to France. And John. Sighing into the quiet, he now had nothing more to focus on before John. John had moved into the top slot again. He frowned. Though that wasn't quite right. He had always been in the top slot, merely _unavailable_ as an option until other things were settled first. He allowed a small smile to pass over his lips. Finally. It was done.

He pushed open the door to his grandmother's family home. "My_croft_!"

"In here, Sherlock." Mycroft's pleased tones carried through the open halls and high ceilings.

He strode quickly into the sitting room, favouring John with a smile. "Good afternoon, all."

"Sherlock." John spared him a quick glance from the book he was reading and then returned his attention to the pages.

"John, if you would. Come along."

"Glad you're home and all, Sherlock, but I'm quite comfortable right where I am."

"Yes, John. However, I would like to speak with you rather immediately. _Without_ the presence of others."

"I'm sure I can hardly be counted as 'others,' Sherlock."

"Shut. Up. Mycroft." The journey had been long, boring, and tedious. Three things he hated in most situations.

Mycroft smiled at him blandly, his smugness restored with his government. "Well. I think I shall get some tea. John, would you like some."

"Yes, please."

Mycroft rose and managed to look like he was wandering out of the room casually. Sherlock stuck his tongue out. "Very mature, brother dear."

"Get lost, Mycroft."

John snorted.

"John." He moved to the ottoman at John's feet, sitting down and tugging John's hands away from the book.

"I _was_ reading that."

"Have you forgiven me yet?"

John finally met his gaze. He sighed then and sat back, tucking his bookmark back into his book. "I'm angry. I'm hurt. I feel left behind. You've gone off an—"

"I've already explained why it was necessary."

"That may _be_, Sherlock, but you couldn't have given me some sort of _hint_ or a clue that would have told me that you were still alive?"

Sherlock sighed in the back of his throat. "I needed it to be believable because otherwise Moriarty wouldn't have bought it. And if he didn't buy it, then he wouldn't have felt safe operating closer to the surface world. And it would have been harder for me to catch him."

"I _understand_..." John said, brow furrowing and face drawn tight. "I just... I was _left_ there. It's like when you used to leave me at crime scenes all the time back when we first met. And I couldn't... I couldn't _do_ anything about it. There was nothing left _to_ do."

"John." He frowned. "I'm not sure how to go about this."

The other man made a strangled noise and tried to pull his hands back. "Of course you don't."

"I am... unfamiliar with the act of comforting someone. I do assure you, however, that your presence was...missed. At my side. And I... I had to. Readjust to the idea of working alone. You are very good at working with me, John. I have missed that."

Rolling his eyes, John gave him a quick smile. "That's about as close to a confession as I'm going to get, aren't I?"

"Was it not adequate?"

"No. But for you? Yes." The tension leached out of him and the smile came back, lingering and fond. "As long as I get one promise."

Sherlock arched a brow.

"You're never to do that again. Do you understand?"

"There is very little to misunderstand, John, in that statement."

"Good. Do you promise?"

Sherlock smiled. "I promise."

"If you ever break that promise, I'll post embarassing pictures of you on my blog and send _that_ photo to Mycroft."

Sherlock jerked back and dropped John's hands. "You _wouldn't_."

"Only if you break your promise," John grinned and then bent his head towards Sherlock's, gripping his face as their foreheads met. "Which you promised you wouldn't. So you've nothing to fear."

Sherlock smiled. "Quite right."

"I forgive you."

Sherlock sighed at the admission, leaning into John's weight. Good then. Everything, as soon as they returned to Baker Street, back to usual.


	3. Epilogue

Sherlock paused in the open door way of 221 Baker Street, breathing in all of the familiar scents—Mrs. Hudson's baking, muted traces of chemicals, gun powder— "John. You'd been going to the shooting range."

John shrugged behind him. "I got bored. Are you actually going to go up or just stand there all day. I'm tired and my leg hurts—yes psychosomatic. Screw you."

Sherlock turned a raised eyebrow on him and smiled smugly. "We can have that discussion later." To his delight, John gaped and flushed tomato-bright and was left at the bottom of the stairs while Sherlock climbed above.

"She—_Sherlock_!"

He waited until John had thumped up the stairs, hurrying, using less cane already, and closed the door to turn and pull of his scarf and coat slowly and deliberately. "I asked you at one time, John, if you liked what you see. Following, we shared a bed, worried about one another, fought, and made up. These are all things one typically sees in the early stages of a relationship. Flirting, you might say. Not to mention, there has been a sort of _tension_ between us. And if I notice it, then it must be fairly obvious to everyone else, considering how I am with emotions. Therefore, I should like to make the proposal that we ha—"

"GOD! Shut _up_! Shut_ UP_!" John screeched, having finally found his voice. He turned a brighter red, one that Sherlock had not thought possible.

He tilted his head. "Or am I wrong? Have I read everything all wrong. I thought you..." He shrugged then and hung his coat. "Tea then?"

"I...!" John blurted out, catching his attention once more.

Sherlock looked him over. "You're put off. I was too forthcoming."

"I just... _Jesus_..." John dragged a hand over his face and groaned. "I don't know if I'm ready for this..."

Smiling slowly, Sherlock nodded. "Very well. I can be patient."

"Like hell you can..." John muttered. He hung his coat and kicked his shoes off by the door. "So what happened to Stephen?"

"Subject change... Ezard is safely hidden away somewhere. Mycroft stashed him and Yasim somewhere they shall be safe. Perhaps even return to England some day, though I doubt it. T.I.A. is done for and it shall never resurface. Mycroft's taken care of it."

"Isn't that a scary thought."

Sherlock settled onto the sofa. "Indeed."

"So everything's back to normal."

"It would appear."

"Well. Good. That's. Good." John settled himself down in his usual chair.

Sherlock waited.

"Damnit, Sherlock. Why did you have to make things different."

"You were content with things the way they were? When did 'things' change then?"

"They..." John broke off, flushing. "They... _didn't_ per se..."

"So how long have you been attracted to me?"

"Je_sus_! Do we have to talk about this now?"

"When else would you like to talk about it? Before or after you get a chance to get involved in another ill-advised relationship with a woman you are only using to distract you? Before or after you get the chance to run away from me and avoid the topic entirely?" he said archly. "How long, John?" He waited, eyes tracing the lines of John's profile.

"Since before... But then... I realised... When you... When you died, I really realised it. I suppose."

"Explains the return of the limp. And the presence of it still," he said quietly. Steepling his fingers, he crossed his legs. "Your realising that you have feelings for me has set things off from our 'normal.'"

"Why do you have to _analyse_ it, for pity's sake..."

"John. All you need to do is answer the question and then we can move on. This..._dithering_ around is helping neither of us."

"Do you _want_ this?" John asked incredulously.

He threw him a look. "Do you think if I did not, then I wouldn't be pursuing it?"

"You'd want to... with me?"

"If you mean have sex, then I think, yes. I would like to give it a try."

"Sherlock... If I say 'yes,' then there's no 'giving it a try.' This would be..."

"Like any other relationship where if it doesn't work, then we shall obviously go back to the way things were," Sherlock snapped.

"If we can."

"That would depend on you."

John's face darkened. "Considering that you've just found out about thi—"

"Not just, John. Looking back, all of the information now makes sense."

"Yeah, but I'm not _information_, Sherlock! Nor are my feelings!"

"Of course not." Sherlock shrugged, watching John's fingers grip the arms of the chair tight. "But that's the way I process things."

John sighed gustily. "I don't know if... This probab—"

"You're willing to live together uncomfortably?"

"It'd be more uncomfortable after a failed attempt at sex or—or—_fuck_." John pressed fingers to his temples, face screwed up.

"Yes. Let's." Sherlock stood and walked over to place himself in front of John. He leaned over and put his hands on John's shoulders, then sliding them down his arms to cover his hands as he knelt. "I want it."

John shuddered. Allowed Sherlock to pull him to his feet, cane forgotten as he was pulled towards Sherlock's bedroom. John planted his feet and shook his head. "No. Mine."

Nodding his consent, Sherlock changed directions and drew him up the stairs and then pushed him down on his own bed.

"Jesus... I can't... I can't believe..." He stared up at Sherlock unbuttoning his shirt with large eyes.

"What do you want."

"You," John blurted, hands suddenly scrabbling over his jumper to pull it off.

"How."

He flushed, dropping the jumper over the side of the bed. "Let me take you?"

"Fine."

"Really?"

Sherlock smiled at him. "John. You're the one that's uncomfortable with this."

Looking up with a little bit of an awed expression, John's face bloomed with understanding. "You'd let me do whatever I want."

He shrugged. "As long as it's not going to hurt either one of us. Yes."

John growled and reached forward, pulling Sherlock down by the loose fronts of his shirt, flipping them so that Sherlock was pressed into the duvet.

"Do it," Sherlock demanded, breathless.

John pushed Sherlock's shirt off and finally dipped his head to kiss his lips.

After they'd both reclaimed the ability to breathe, Sherlock rolled onto his side to face John. "That went well."

John laughed.

"Again?"

"Give a man some time to recover."

"Implying there will be a repeat performance."

John turned his head and smiled at him. "Yes. Yes, I should think so."

Sherlock sighed and smiled widely. "Excellent. This was enjoyable. I would enjoy it many more times, in many more ways."

Huffing softly in the darkness of his room, he rolled and nestled himself against Sherlock's side. "I should have known you'd be insatiable..."

Laughter rumbling quietly in his chest, he splayed his hands against John's back, counting the knobs as they went up and down. "You satiate, John."

"I think that's the kindest thing you've ever said to me," John murmured, eyes already shut as he drifted to sleep.

Sherlock hummed, a smile playing about his lips. Fully forgiven and post-coital was perfect. He counted the lines on John's ceiling until he too drifted off into slumber.


End file.
